bway2hlwd

.....The Broadway Musical on Film Project.....

The Journey So Far

A chronological stroll thru the history of Broadway Musicals as they came to be recorded by Hollywood--the summation of a lifelong vocation, and a journey of self discovery. Equal parts cultural history, critique and personal memoir. Comingnext: Jersey Boys

Tuesday, February 27, 2018

Who today actually reads Victor Hugo's historic 1862 novel--all
five volumes and 365 chapters over 1,500 pages, rambling off-topic over a
quarter of its length with essays on religion, morality, urban design and the
meaning of Waterloo, among a catalog of subjects? (All of which I know courtesy
of Wikipedia) For most of today's planet, Les
Miserables is now (& forever) an internationally successful Pop Opera--for
better or worse the very definition of the genre. Originating, like the novel,
in France, the title is so venerable rarely is it translated into English or
any other language; understandably evoking more charm or appealthan a literal
translation like The Miserable Ones
or more bluntly put, Misery. A
theatrical phenomenon on a scale beyond even most Bway smash hits, Les Miz (as commonly abbreviated) tho
widely loved, is as often derided by musical theater connoisseurs. As Ethan
Mordden points out, Pop Opera reaches for a generic universality which makes
for a hollow-feeling core--a sense of coming from nowhere, not somewhere
honestly rooted. Of course, Frenchmen Claude-Michel Schonberg & Alain
Boublil wrote the show for Paris, but Brits John Caird & Trevor Nunn shaped
the show for London and subsequent international productions. Opening on Bway
in 1987, it ran for 16 years and has already been revived twice. The West End
production, however, has been running continuously now for well over 30 years; which
only goes to prove: misery loves company.

I never felt the love myself. From my first exposure to
the album thru production on stage and now film, I remain unmoved. I find the
score musically pedestrian with lyrics blunt where they should be poetic--an
enormous bore; sincerity & bombast without distinction. Its fame rests on a
trio of tentpoles: the full-throttle arias, "I Dreamed a Dream" and
"On My Own," and the act-ending call to arms, "One Day More"
(which cribs half its line from "Dream"). Woefully, the rest remains
painfully monotonous, especially the relentless recitative that hews the piece
to Opera rather than simply (less-pretentiously) a Musical. On top of which, a time-jumping
narrative outlines an endless chain of misfortune, struggle, abuse. What's the
word? Oh yes, misery. Fight/Dream/Hope/Love reads the film poster's copy. A
nice set of directives--which could more accurately be replaced with just a
single word: Endure.

I don't recall approaching any movies in this survey with
as much dread, and I put off viewing it for as long as I could. Some of that,
no doubt, stems from my present state of mind; tentative, weary, anxious, on
the verge of major change; on top of which the current political climate casts a
dark and frightening shadow across America--led by that would-be dictator on
the throne; manifest in the widespread decline of civil behavior and tolerance.
In an increasingly ugly and violent society, entertainment both reflects and
glorifies depravity. Do we really need musicals
to join in? So, OK, perhaps I'm overreacting; it's a World Literature classic,
after all--(not a gratutious piece of shit porn like Silence of the Lambs)--a tale as old as time. If that's the case
then the fault must lie in the telling.

Onstage Les Miz
utilizes a turntable and skeletal scenery out of necessity, but a film, of
course has the luxury of realism, even if it's pumped up with fantasy CGI. From
the start Hlwd's version goes for the IMAX jugular, opening with a stormy scene
of colossal human labor, hundreds of slaves pulling a mountainous ship into
dock. It almost makes Ben Hur look
like a Sandals resort. There will be various moments of such epic tableaux, but
for the most part the movie is kept close and personal to the characters. The
scorched purity of Jean Valjean--jailed 19 years
for stealing a loaf of bread--to feed a child no less. A week wouldn't be enuf
punishment? Is it possible to lack that
much empathy without at least a racial bias to give it credence? Or consider
the twisted righteousness of Javert who perversely ignores Valjean's
redemption. Is he so blind with misdirected rage not to see this as a model
transformation? Or Fantine's expulsion from the factory. On and on . . . But I digress . . .

Producer Cameron Mackintosh made a fortune from endless stage
productions, and took a chair among others on the film's team. For director
they chose Tom Hooper, with a resume of British costume dramas building to his Oscar
win for The King's Speech. He would guide Les Miz to a Best Pic nomination in the
recently widened category, but not find himself in the five slots for Best
Director. Beyond the upgrade to epic "realism" the movie luxuriates
in major Hlwd casting. Who could object to Hugh Jackman & Russell Crowe as
the main adversaries? Or Anne Hathaway and Amanda Seyfried as the hapless
heroines? Fresh, breaking Bway talent like Eddie Redmayne and Aaron Tveit make for
attractive revolutionaries. Throw in one genuine ingenue, Samantha Barks--unknown
outside the West End. One by one, each are given platform to sing their hearts
and guts out--tho most are not quite singers. Hooper takes his frame in close
for each aria--painfully close--magnifying the histrionic emoting. The actors
don't sing the songs as much as punch them up in go-for-broke acting exercises.
Hathaway turned her raw, hair-raising, hair-shorn solo, "I Dreamed a Dream" into an Oscar.

Jackman had to settle for a nomination (but who
could beat Daniel Day Lewis's Lincoln?)
Crowe waxes philosophical while treading upon ledges, until at last he hurls
himself off in despair. Then there's Sacha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter,
inhabiting a different movie altogether, as villainous innkeepers appearing
like walk-ins from a Tim Burton film. "Master of the House" is the
show's single attempt at comedy--but is such a lame number it makes me long for
Lionel Bart. Carter & Cohen make slapstick mince meat of it, but it doesn't
comport with the rest of the film.

The movie opened wide on Christmas Day, 2012. The starry
cast gave catchet to an already marketable title, and likely helped push the
domestic gross to $148 million--the highest for a musical since Chicago. Global figures were nearly
twice that. Factor in 8 Oscar nominations (winning 3), Les Miz was unquestionably a hit film musical, riding a torrent of
publicity, acclaim and hurrahs that December--with Obama safely re-elected and
the world receptive to a 19th century French epic, sung-thru by some Hlwd
faves. I finally got to it sometime in July. Suffice it to say I didn't view it
again until preparing this entry.

I was otherwise engaged that December. It seemed
inconceivable but I was turning 60. As it happened, the second Playbill cruise
was sailing over my transition, and as the route was the one other I couldn't resist:
Buenos Aires to Rio (during the South American summer)--it was fated. Larry
Rubinstein was game again--as he always is--and I was able to go ahead a few
days and pop over to Montevideo (a ferry ride away) and indulge my curious
life-long obsession with Uruguay on my own. After meeting Larry for half a week
in lovely Buenos Aires, we were back (on ship) to Montevideo and further to Punta
del Este, but the thrill of my mini-intro to this far-flung fantasy was price-less.
The cruise reunited us with Jeff & Karen Seltzer, whom we'd just met on the
previous sail, but now became our good friends and anchors. Seth Rudetsky was
back as musical director. But if my goofy pal, Andrea Martin wasn't along this
time, I got to discuss David Yazbek's amazing score to Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, with Sherie Rene Scott.
And enjoy some giddy/disarming flirtations with Jason Daniely.

We
had a full day at sea on my birthday and a most wonderful one it was. Very
quickly we found ourselves invited into an clique of 60-something married
couples, who all seemed to adore us. Jeff & Karen were mostly responsible,
as these were folk they had made acquaintance with on the previous cruise. One
threw a cocktail party in her suite (the largest on ship) for my birthday, with
a small crowd, including Playbill publisher, Phil Bersch and Judy Perl--the
cruise agent. Since the last cruise Jeff & Karen had become pals with
Christine Ebersole & her husband, Bill; so now I was drawn into their
orbit. Early on I suggested Christine sing "My Ship," having done Lady in the Dark at Encores! which she
thought a wonderful idea; and a week later she performed it at a Playbill
event--"at request"--tho Seth pointed out they don't normally do
requests. It was wonderful, funny (for her "trumpet solo" in the
bridge), and felt like an extra special gift to me. Seth Rudetsky was a
completely different person this time, and we connected on a more personal
level. My knowledge in the trivia contest made me known to many as "that
know-it-all," which brought forth the repeated, if bafflingly inane query:
"How do you know all that stuff?" Oy. The response was such that
Playbill insisted on staging a contest between Seth & I--and did--which was
rather uncomfortable for me, set in the main theater with an audience that
included all the Playbill performers. Lewis Black nearly shut down the whole
thing by questioning one of editor Blake Ross's more inane/absurd questions. It
kinda fizzled out, but I sure got a lot of attention on board. The Playbill
shows were mostly splendid (the exception being Marin Mazzie's bizarre,
"These are songs I liked growing up in the '70s" program); to say
nothing of how chilly and unengaging her presence was. Christine was the best,
improved from the year before, with all new material ranging in character,
tone, mood and vocal ability. Sherie Rene was fun, too--the only one to
acknowledge our whereabouts, with a Brazilian samba medley. And Seth played
accompaniment with proficiency and finesse. Jason Danieley didn't get his own
show, but did a matinee with Marin (his much older wife) about their initial
romance--he sings divinely, but sadly their voices do not mesh well. Lewis
Black toned down his political raging but was hysterical about the cruise ("Why
is the staff happier than the passengers?") I imagined a potential Woody
Allen-ish movie about a comic on a cruise. When I told Black, he said he'd
tried to sell Hlwd on such a script--with no luck. He talked much about his
mostly failed playwriting career, which Larry thought rightly absurd, but I
found interesting, no doubt by how much I could relate. "My ship" sailed into Rio harbor on a disappointingly foggy morning--I get enuf of that in San Francisco. But the city's landmark beauty came out in the midday sun. We embarked for Copacabana post-cruise, and with our last minute, newest and most intrepid friends, Mike & Eliot (who it turns out lived but 2 blocks from me in SF) we finished the trip off in visceral exotica for a few days more. (Why isn't there a great musical set in Brazil?) But I digress. . . Again.

Saturday, December 30, 2017

I suppose it was only a matter of time until we got a Tom
Cruise musical--and a cruise missile of a musical it is. Repurposing rock hits
into narrative arcs can only be classified as naked commercialism. It's not
like these songs were crying out for dramatic context--they're AM radio fare. The
movie's poster comes at you like those cheap TV ads for K-tel records, the big
names flying at you--Tom Cruise! Mary J. Blige! Catherine Zeta Jones! Alec
Baldwin! Foreigner! Journey! Guns N' Roses! Bon Jovi! "Nothin' But a Good
Time" promised. But in fact the movie has a lot of (uninspired) story--tho
less than the stage show, astonishingly, whose libretto by Chris D'Arienzo was
a virtual season's worth of melodrama stuffed between 24 musical numbers--a
good many of which are mash-ups of two or three songs by disparate bands. Such
a long-winded book prevents any mistaking the show for a rock concert masquerading
as theater. And great effort has been made to use familiar '80s hits in a context that defines
the characters and/or advances the plot; in other words, like a real Bway
musical. This was something of a surprise to me, having come to another, less
cohesive prejudgment based on what little interest I could muster to consider
this in the Bway canon. The mere mention of the heavy metal bands whose songs
make up the score was enuf to kill my interest in its tracks. Or should I say,
traxxx?

Being a Bway baby didn't preclude my taking interest in
other genres of music as I emerged from the cocoon of childhood,
including--prominently enuf--"rock" in manifestations of pop, reggae,
ska, new wave, salsa, world beat and electronica. Wheras musicals are a finite
study (perhaps a dozen new a year), rock is a countless universe of bands with
a dizzying spectrum of banality to sophistication. With so much volume how do
we ever find our way to our own musical gods? Or do they somehow find us?
Surely our friends & peers influence our taste, or at least introduce new
sounds into our lives. Some relationships are built entirely around the
appreciation of music. It was my high school friend, Bill (and later first roommate
in New York) who began my education down the slippery slope with such hippies
as The Mamas & the Papas and Spanky & Our Gang before acclimating me to
the likes of Grace Slick, Santana, Pink Floyd and Rick Wakeman. What does our
taste in music say about us? Does it in some fundamental way, define us? Is it
as ephemeral a question as one of nature vs nurture? Music has been an
incalcuable factor in my life--I couldn't imagine living without it. But for
the most part, the score of Rock of Ages
fires very little in my brain's pleasure center.

Is it unfair to surmise a certain demographic drawn to the
catalog of bands chosen here? (White, blue-collar, parochial, testosterone
driven?) Was the impetus for the show from (D'Arienzo's) musical affection, or
was this a wholly commercial opportunity seized? In either case the question
remains: did the score (as chosen) dictate the characters, the sensibility, the
milieu and the story? Or did the script come first, seeking songs to make its
points? My guess is the former--for it's hard to take the narrative seriously.
A sort of A Star is Born of the LA rock scene; the story revels in the finer
points of sleaze even as it wants to wink at it in parody. It's still a little
difficult for me to accept the pic as a period piece--but in fact it is set
some 25 years ago, which ages the music more than I can readily recognize. I
mean this: in 25 years pop music evolved from The Andrews Sisters and Benny
Goodman to Janis Joplin and The Rolling Stones. If it doesn't seem to me so radically
different now from the '80s; then call me ignorant of current rock. At any rate
the core audience here was aging adults whose youth was steeped in this
soundtrack.

After tryouts in Los Angeles and Las Vegas, Rock of Ages tested the waters Off-Bway
for a few months before transferring to Bway in March 2009--where it ran as
long as Man of La Mancha--until
January 2015. The show was rushed to the
screen faster than any in memory; with the film coming--and going--midway thru
its Bway run. Such optimism wasn't built on Chris D'Arenzio's book, given the
fundamental changes made, and the addition of two other scribes (Allan Loeb
& Justin Theroux--yes, Jennifer Aniston's mate) --to wrestle a new
screenplay. Much of this might have something to do with attracting Tom Cruise
to playing Stacee Jaxx. In the stage musical Jaxx is entirely despicable and
ends up a has-been. The film paints him more ambiguously. Indulgent &
excessive beyond parody, he also wants to be the pic's soul--a psuedo-zen freak
with spiritual powers; he not only retains his status but succumbs to a blonde
wife with (at coda) baby on board. Curiously, the young wannabe rock stars,
Sherrie & Drew on stage wind up heading for the suburbs; whereas on film
they, of course, find stardom. Wisely cut was a subplot with a German father
& son (villainous developers after the Bourbon Room club); whose conflict
is the son's passion for confectionary baking. The film invents instead a
morality-spouting adulterous Mayor, whose wife campaigns to close the club with
a fervor equal to her once devotion as groupie (and bedmate) of Jaxx's.

D'Arienzo demonstrates no talent for names. Stacee Jaxx?
Wofgang Von Colt? Constance Sack? Drew Boley? A boy band called Z Guyeezz? A
glass of beer and two friends could improve on this on any given night. But not
apparently a trio of screenwriters. When Sherrie meets her idol, Stacee, she
gets off this gem: "When my hamster died your music really helped me pull
thru." Yes, I know it's meant to be ridiculous, but really? Much of the
script seems to have been written around a bong. Such as when Sherrie and Drew
trade notes on how far their fortunes have fallen:

--"I'm
a stripper at the Venus Club"

--"I'm
in a boy band"

--"You
Win."

Club owners Dennis & Lonny are thrown the one
uncliched character surprise: they realize their attraction for each other, and
act on it, unabashedly. It's not really very convincing, coming off more as
patronizing--but as it celebrates rather than condemns queerness--in a (arguably)
heterosexually-aimed piece of entertainment, it's hard to object to. But
there's only manufactured conflict, nothing of any substance, or really, even
interest.

Was there ever such an outcry over rock in the '80s that had the
religious right protesting on the Sunset Strip? The flimsiest of devices parts
lovers Sherrie & Drew--he thinks she fucked Jaxx; she thinks the spotlight
has turned him into an instant asshole; Jaxx himself has an unlikely reckoning
confronted by a journalist. It's all as random as Dennis & Lonny's sudden
passion for each other.

The film was assigned to Adam Shankman who'd directed Hairspray a few years before, demonstrating
an understanding of musicals on screen. In fact, his helming here is not to be
faulted--neither in his staging of the many musical sequences, or the
semi-starry casting with top-lined (but not top-billed) Cruise. Paul Giamatti,
Catherine Zeta-Jones, and Malin Akerman play roles newly written for the pic;
and Mary J. Blige, Alec Baldwin, and Russell Brand nicely prop up supporting
characters. Somehow I've remained rather clueless about Julianne Hough, who seems
entirely new to me, tho apparently she came to prominence quite young on TV's Dancing with the Stars, and had already
made the Footloose remake in Hlwd, as
well as Cher's Burlesque. (Later in 2016
she plays Sandy in the live-TV Grease.) As Sherie in Rock, Hough defines the

country girl gone Hollywood-rocker with exactitude down to her still blushing
youth. For her love interest, Shankman determined that Mexican TV actor and
singer Diego Boneta would score as Zac Efron did in Hairspray. He's fine as well, but Boneta appears to me underage for
getting in, letting alone working a bar. Which makes Baldwin & Brand look
like codgers. Their slow burn for each other adds some fresh humor, even tho it
never feels very real. Mary J. Blige models a series of wigs while running a
strip joint; Catherine Zeta-Jones gets to sing Pat Benatar while feigning
Republicanism; and Paul Giamatti disappears into the role of slimey agent,
complete with world's most pathetic pony-tail. Unfortunately, none of them are
very interesting characters.

Credit Shankman for boldly putting forth an unapolegetic
credence to the laws of musical comedy right from the start, with Hough belting
her heart out on a bus heading west, only to have her fellow passengers naturally
join in. Her arrival in Hollywood is "Just Like Paradise" tho in
short order she dodges a drug bust, gets accosted by hookers, harassed by males
and loses her suitcase to a thief. Heavy handed, sure. But these people are
going to sing these songs as if they were the narrative, and not some MTV video,
and they come with much more frequency than you'd expect. A good many of them
are also mash-ups of two or three songs, and reflect various pairings and
storylines. But the film is also uncommonly vulgar while shying away from more
hardcore realities (there's more cocaine in Annie
Hall than all of here); as a rock god, Stacee Jaxx gives Tom Cruise license
to indulge in his brand of movie star weirdness (better exploited in Paul
Thomas Anderson's Magnolia), complete
with hawk-like

stares and tattooed bod--tho at times it feels like he's relying
on his bandanna to do all the acting. The Sub-Saharan circus surrounding him is
a bit much (including a monkey butler lamely called "Hey-Man")' but
you can see his magnetism as a rock star--a performance kid Cruise has been
rehearsing since pubescence. As well as the soft-porn scene that's "I Want
to Know What Love Is"--tho what's meant to be comic is simply trashy.
Later at the Venus Club Mary Blige unleashes a Cirque de Soleil-worthy pole
dance number to "Anyway You Want it" by Journey--an insanely popular
band, of which I've managed to exist all my life knowing virtually nothing
about. Their catchy but vacuous anthem, "Don't Stop Believin' " wraps
the film up in a fairy-tale ending: Jaxx sober, reborn & soon-to-be-dad by
journalist bride; Drew & Sherrie a duo in Jaxx' show, and all remaining
characters rocking out in the audience, including an unleashed Zeta-Jones in
fishnets & leather. And not a hint of marijuana smoked on screen--in this
hardcore LA rock scene. It's almost unbearably silly.

To great extent one's enjoyment of this pic, depends on
one's taste for the chosen brand of rock. Half a dozen songs were familiar to
me from the '80s zeitgeist, but I ran a very different soundtrack during those
years: Elvis Costello, Talking Heads, Paul Simon, Sade, The B-52s, Blondie, The
English Beat, Springsteen Madness. Along with...Evita, Dreamgirls, Nine, Rags, Little Shop of Horrors, Chess. But
in truth I listened to more rock in those days than Bway--which felt evermore
in decline, or worse: irrelevant. Rock of
Ages hit the summer market on the Ides of June 2012--but even a starry cast
(and Tom Cruise to boot!) didn't draw a millenial audience. The film scraped up
$38 million domestic, but less than $60m worldwide--falling far short of its
$75m cost.

It had been two and half years since Nine--the last Bway musical transferred to screen, and a great deal
had transpired in my life with a nod to the future. A smart agent sold my deceased
mother's house in San Jose instant-quick, and for above asking; which in turn
allowed me to put a serious bid on the house I'd eyed in Palm Springs, struggling
in a bottomed-out market, now in a short sale. I came out like a bandit--first-time
homeowner in what felt like my spiritual homeland since I was nine years old. Fully
furnished and equipment stocked, I was set from the start to accommodate
vacation rentals until my own retirement & relocation. In the meantime,
that allowed for my own extended desert getaways, which effortlessly drew
friends from both coasts and Chicago. Times were good. Obama had taken reigns
from the idiot Bush; my job was as secure as it was unobtrusive; Greg was
stable if not terribly active; my entire known family was dead and scattered to
the wind and I had at last unshackeled myself from the slavery of ambition. I
conceived & commenced this very blog--which became more pleasure than
project and has smoothly driven these last 7 years of my creative life. 2011 was also the
year I finally broke my 28 year streak of passport storage. The impetus was a
maiden voyage on a luxury cruise line sponsored by Playbill magazine, a
Bway-themed cruise with top Big Street talent sailing around Italy in September.
It was compelling, and easy to convince Larry Rubinstein to join me. But prior
to sailing I granted myself a continental mini-Grand Tour, hitting London,
Paris, Rome, after a quick dash thru New York, where I had just enuf time between
visits with friends to catch The Addams
Family (even with a replacement cast it was de regiuer--as

"mi familia" of course.) and Catch Me If You Can, which I loved even
more than in Seattle, but which sadly, puzzlingly, didn't catch on in NY. Far
less memorable was the single West End show I caught, Betty Blue Eyes--a pleasant if minor musical based on a minor 1984
British film, A Private Function.
(Even the Brits were now adapting their old movies.) What I most wanted to see,
Matilda, was still a month off. I lucked
into a discount rate at Claridges and ran all over London for 3 nights--which was
but a tasty sample of a town that feuled my imagination for over half a
century. I suspect my British obessesion was first perked (again at age 9) by
an hour-long sitcom from CBS in the fall of '62 called Fair Exchange--which left a strong impression upon me, despite
airing for only several months. A NY & London family swapped daughters for
a school year. Culture shock ensued. Paris was an embarrassment of landmarks,
but I came away from my whirlwind trio of days, feeling the place somehow cold.
That was instantly corrected upon arrival in Rome--as I'm always comfortable around
Italians, which is more than I can say for the French.

The Regent cruise introduced these eyes to a series of
Mediterranean jewels: Portofino, Monte Carlo, Sorrento, Amalfi. The Playbill
contingent proved to be only about 120 out of 700 passengers, but we got to
know a few. As the online face of all-things-Bway, Seth Rudestky was familiar
to most of us already, and as Camp Counselor he quickly matched Larry & I up
to John & James from London, who aside from bonding so nicely (and having
such great senses of humor) were only over time revealed to me to be
well-connected British theater folk. It was nice at this stage of life to enjoy
them merely as people and not calculated opportunities to exploit. Among the
marquee names on our cruise none was more exciting to me than Andrea
Martin--

whom I had worshipped for decades (for her catalog of characters on
SCTV and other comedy shows) long before she stepped on a Bway stage and earned
Tony nominations for each of her five Bway musicals--and winning twice. Aside
from considering her a comic genius I felt I had a deeper understanding of her
as an Armenian-American woman; as she had much in common with a friend of my
parents, who I'd grown up knowing only too well, and who in 1970 took me and my
high school pal, Bill, from Syracuse (my birthplace and her home) to Niagra
Falls, Toronto and up to Montreal--all the while revealing herself a character
worthy of Andrea Martin. It was a thrilling treat to watch the genius behind
Edith Prickley and Pirini Schleroso, work up close, of course, but it was even
better to engage with her offstage. Yet there was a moment in one of the Playbill
informals where we did some improv that afforded me the chance to reference a
rather obscure (but choice) bit from Andrea's SCTV days with but a gesture. Our
eyes locked as she got my reference, and it was all either of us could do from
breaking up entirely. Something in the bolt of that moment between us was so
private, yet in full view of an audience made it all the more electric. Her
friend, Debra Monk accompanied her on the cruise (without performing), and the
4 of us later spent an afternoon at Peggy Guggenheim's museum in Venice after
sloshing down the Grand Canal in a motorboat. Also on board ship were Christine
Ebersole (who would figure in later travels) and Brian Stokes Mitchell who arrived
only on the final night,

but lingered long after his lovely concert to chat up
our group, allowing me to impress upon him how good (divorced from its
ill-fated, manic production) the score was for Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown--something he didn't seem
aware of had come thru on record. It was nearly the end of the cruise before we
got acquainted with Jeff & Karen Seltzer, dedicated theatre fans--and in
Jeff something of an archivist after my own heart--they too, would figure
later. If the world was opening up to me again it wasn't thru the cinema or
theater. Rock of Ages doesn't satisfy
as either a Bway or film musical, nor
did it draw fans of these bands in large numbers. But there will be no end of
rock music and musicians featured on Bway, some misguided fast flops, some immensely
successful.

Sunday, November 26, 2017

I was nine years old thru all but three weeks of 1962,
which as I've already noted was and always will be "my favorite
year." The growth of consciousness I spurted then was awash in all the
cultural signifers, from design to music to film and TV, and that magical
playground they called Broadway. Was it simply a factor of my awakening that
everything then looked so stylish & modern? Would I have felt the same if I
awoke in 1971? or 1985? Perhaps, but I would rather doubt it. Except for maybe
that scuffle over Cuba, 1962 was real swell. And so, too, was being nine years
old, living in a five-year-old house in a virgin suburb of Southern California;
and seeing for the first time both San Francisco and Palm Springs.

Among other things that happened in 1962, the Italian film
director, Federico Fellini--coming off his peak international success: the
scandalous and unavoidable La Dolce Vita--wrestled
with his next picture, which became the brilliant, epic, and exceptionally
cinematic reflection of the artist's eternal struggle with creation: Eight and a Half; the highest peak in
Fellini's career and one of the undisputed classics of world cinema.

And a most
unlikely prospect for a musical.

The film had its own indelible soundtrack by Nino
Rota--with snippets drawn from all over (including one of the most seductive
uses of Rodgers & Hart's "Blue Moon" ever put on film). Rota, was
of course Fellini's house tunesmith, and their collaborations are a match made
in heaven. Tho Rota's music is unique, he doesn't write
"songs"--there aren't lyrics to any of his familiar melodies--he's a
classicist with modernist inclinations, and yet tho brimming with music, no one
would call 81/2a musical. It was gutsy to think
it could be one.

And that was
Maury Yeston. Who, like me, got religion at age ten seeing My Fair Lady (tho he saw it on Bway). Factor in his first composed
musical as a new adaptation of Alice in
Wonderland (my own childhood favorite),
and then the audacity of making one of 81/2---this
is my kind of guy. (It helps that he writes beautiful melody that doesn't sound
like anyone else's, and in particular I mean The Measure of the Age: Sondheim.)
Yeston, who has certainly had his share of success, following Nine on Bway with Grand Hotel and the unlikely but brilliant Titanic, has also had some frustrating roadblocks. He had written a
Phantom (of the opera) musical just
prior to Lloyd-Webber's behemouth, which pretty much cramped his far superior
version. Earlier still, Yeston was on board to score the first incarnation of La Cage aux Folles--a re-set in New
Orleans to be called The Queen of Basin
St. Sounds fun, yes? Not that one can regret Jerry Herman's
Riviera-on-the-Hudson swan song. And yet. . . Yeston's music has depth and color, and tho he's twice won Tonys for Best Musical, he's not truly earned the
recognition & clamour he deserves--which is no less than that accorded
Sondheim or Lloyd-Webber. It was Yeston's audacity to attempt his first major
work with the BMI Workshop on such a complex phantasmagoria as 81/2.

Fellini (as a source) was no stranger to Bway, having been
musicalized twice before 1970--and entirely divorced from the mark of Nino
Rota. His Nights of Cabiria turned
into Sweet Charity (a great success),
and La Strada as. . . well, La Strada--a four performance flop from
Lionel Bart in 1969 (starring a very young Bernadette Peters and Larry Kert).
But 81/2
was sui generis--a
surrealistic cavalcade of images, a rambling stroll thru one (very un-common)
man's crisis of the soul, that was simply breathless in its scope and ambition.
It was instantly among my favorite films
when first I caught up with it in 1981; so I could well understand Maury Yeston's
obsession--which scarcely a year later was on Bway. The story of Nine's long gestation process (from
1973) is in itself quite fascinating--the evolution from mixed cast to all-women
(& Guido), the addition of new numbers right thru, and inspired by, the
rehearsal process. The under-the-radar surprise critical smash, the last minute
steal of the Tony from Dreamgirls.
The sainthood, without further doubt, of Tommy Tune. It would make a good story
on its own--a real Broadway story.

None of the women were really stars. Karen Akers a rising
local chanteuse, Anita Morris, Shelly Burch, Laura Kenyon (the darling of Ben
Bagley recordings) Taina Elg (one-time MGM third-liner) and Liliane
Montevecchi--imported from somewhere French, maybe Canada. Each worthy a
"star" moment, but further incarnations cast it more
"worthy" of the title: Laura Benanti, Jane Krakowski, Mary Stuart
Masterson and Chita Rivera in the 2003 Bway revival, or Nicole Kidman, Penelope
Cruz, Marion Cotillard, Judi Dench, Fergie, Kate Hudson and Sophia Loren in the
equally unlikely prospect that came to be: a 2009 film, directed by Rob
Marshall, the man credited for reviving the movie musical with Chicago--but who hadn't come much
further along that line since.

Of course at the center of this estrogen circus is
Guido--a man so necessarily charming he had to be built around Marcello
Mastroianni. Wisely, Yeston kept the original film's Italian soul intact,
instead of adapting it, say, to Los Angeles. The musical's Guido was the Puerto
Rican Prince of Bway: Raul Julia--a man of smooth charm & seduction (a
perfect Gomez Addams later), equal to his Italian precursor--and a lovely
singer as well. The first revival 21 years later lured Spanish film star
Antonio Banderas to the stage. For the screen, Rob Marshall found yet another
enchanter, no less convincing even while lacking the requisite Latin genes.
Daniel Day-Lewis in accent or affectation is never less than utterly
mesmerizing, and for him Guido is no stretch --except, perhaps, vocally. He's
not a singer, but he manages to croak out the abundant lyrics to good effect.
Daniel first came to my attention in 1986 with such vivid takes on such widely
divergent roles in My Beautiful
Launderette and A Room with a View. His
chameleonic abilities allow him an incredible variety of characters, all played
with his underlying aquiline touch: My
Left Foot, The Last of the Mohicans, The Age of Innocence, The Crucible, Gangs
of New York, There Will Be Blood, Lincoln; it's an astonishing resume,
(yielding 3 Oscars from 21 movies) concise yet broad in range and high in
quality. At age 60 with Paul Thomas Anderson's Phantom Thread in the can,
Daniel Day-Lewis claims he's retired from film. Apparently he really enjoys
being a cobbler--acting just gets in the way.

Yeston's score was so instantly commanding that I'm sure I
internalized it before seeing the show on Bway in October '82--four months
after its surprise Tony win. I'd bought two orchestra seats far in advance, and
on the appointed evening brought a NY friend to the 46th St. Theater (now the
Richard Rodgers) where I'd had many an enchanted evening in years past, only to
find at Will Call that my tickets were for the previous night! With the show
sold out I was stunned into such visible shock that an angel stepped out of the
ether and literally handed me two extra orchestra tix, entirely gratis. Thus,
it was meant to be. The show was so fresh and melodic that I was back to see it
scarcely two months later with TC in NY to celebrate my 30th birthday. (The
album later became a staple of Sunday mornings for TC.) On Bway Nine utilized a single unit set, white
tile boxes and columns evoking a Venetian spa; and its stageful of women, all
in black & white costumes--a Neapolitan Ascot. It was a brilliant concept
by stager Tommy Tune. But even more so was Yeston's smart adaptability
translating Fellini's epic surrealism into a compact space without sacrificing
the scope. Or simply put: cinema into theater.
It was a
gutsy gamble that paid off. But
to then make a film of Nine, is to be
changing it back, now with inevitable comparison to Fellini's original--even
while laden with extra baggage of its own.

Rob Marshall has stated his problem with film musicals: he
needs justification for the singing. Which to me seems like an apology instead.
Music and singing--much of it coming out of left field--has been in movies from
the introduction of sound. I don't buy the argument that contemporary audiences
(raised on MTV and YouTube) don't "get it." We all accept the most
outrageous of alien or superhero scenarios. Yet Marshall needs to rationalize
musical numbers by framing them as fantasy--all in the mind of the leading
character (as if anyone slips into a vaudeville number to escape reality.) That
was his big epiphany in restructuring Chicago
for the screen--a narrative which worked there, so why not here? Well, for
one thing it means a good share of Yeston's score must be sacrified, and Arthur
Kopit's libretto must be rewritten, changing entire sequences and characters.
Aside from cutting no less than (stupidly ironic) nine numbers (including the title song) adding two (which are at
least by Yeston); the screenplay--begun by Anthony Minghella of The English Patient & Talented Mr. Ripley (who died midway)
and finished by Michael Tolkin of The
Player--then omits the show's central fantasy section: Guido's run with
Carla's inspiration: Casanova in Venice, and the mini-musical that is "The
Grand Canal." The film's Guido remains clueless to his imminent project
thruout, even adding a "2 Years Later" coda to wrap the story up,
where it never had to go before. Another casualty is Guido's French producer,
Liliane LaFleur (on the not entirely unreasonable argument that European film
producers are rarely women); replacing
her with British costumer and substitute Mommy (still called Lilli--and
tailored to Judi Dench) as Guido's one true confidante. Film critic Stephanie
Necrophorus is now an American correspondent from Vogue. And whereas the musical maintained a symmetry with its title
focussing on nine women in Guido's life, the film drops two entirely: a
columnist, Lina Darling, and a nun from his childhood, Mama Maddelena. In the
end, Nine is one of the more
bowdlerized Bway musicals to hit the screen since the 1960s.

Javier Bardem and Antonio Banderas were both in serious
contention for Guido, until Daniel Day-Lewis sent the produers a self-made
audition tape. And even knowing how British he is, we are entirely seduced and
convinced by his Italian mastery. Marshall claims Sophia Loren was the first
woman cast, having told her he wouldn't make the film without her. As the only
Italian among the principals, she holds the spiritual center of what became an smorgasbord
of casting from across the continent and beyond. A wide range of Hlwd's top
actresses came in and auditioned for various roles. A Spaniard, Penelope Cruz,
was considered for Luisa and Claudia before finding her way to Carla. (And
earning the sole Oscar nom within the cast). For Lilli (originally French) they
brought in Marion Cotillard, who landed Luisa instead. So Lilli jumped the
channel to let Judi Dench put her British stamp on it. Kate Hudson was given a
newly invented fashion journalist role with a sycophantic, slightly silly
production number that evokes the era of Hullaballo and her own mom, Goldie
Hawn. A more unusual choice was American pop-singer Fergie for the
earth-mother-whore Saraghina. Marshall first cast Chicago's Velma, Catherine Zeta-Jones as Guido's muse, Claudia--but
upgraded to Nicole Kidman, whose statuesque beauty and '60s styling evokes
Anita Ekberg. So now Claudia is a Swedish siren played by an Australian
actress. Each and every one would do their own singing.

Onstage Nine
assumed a contemporary ('80s) time frame. The movie sends it back to 1965,
allowing for more direct reference to Fellini and the Italian style of the
period--which has some logic to it. Marshall begins with Guido in
mid-interview; "You kill your film several times," are his first
words--hopefully not an excuse for what's the come. But shortly we are on a
Cinecitta soundstage where, alone, Guido conjures a parade of the women in his
life (past & present) on the half-built set of his next movie (Italia--big title, with no concept.)
There are shades of Follies here; an
exciting opening with stirring music (using the show's choral overture) giving
each character a true star entrance. It's quite theatrical but works well
cinematically. Marshall brings most of the numbers back to this set, whether
they start there or not--narratively anchoring Guido's imagination. This made
more sense for Roxie in Chicago
because her dream was starring in Vaudeville. But there's no mention that Guido
is making a movie musical--why would ruminations on his life and film come out
as musical fantasies? Escaping the pressures of his production crew and a press
conference, he slips into "Guido's Song" as a form of mental escape.
It's a great "wanting" song--filled with conflicts and ego; and has
one of Maury Yeston's very best lyrics:

I
want to be Proust

Or the Marquis de Sade

I want to be Christ, Mohammed, Buddha

But not have to believe in God

The pic has him athletically bouncing around the studio
set, intercut with his escape from Rome (in a vintage Alfa Romeo taking sharp
turns with stunning views of the Forum and Amalfi Coast). The song's coda adds
a cathedral of women gyrating, but the editing is sloppy, haphazard; a missed
opportunity for the sort of breathless excitement the music commands. With the
entire concept of "Grand Canal" discarded, Venice is replaced by
Anzio (south of Rome on Italy's west coast)--and the spa (in both show and 81/2)is now a hotel--the very one that figures prominently in Fellini's
Amacord. So the film loses "The
Germans at the Spa," a wonderful choral number, which even in the show is
actually extraneous--no Germans figure later in the show. And tho so much of
the score is cut, at least the extended scenes are well written--much as they
are in 81/2.

On stage Anita Morris made "A Call from the
Vatican," while rolling around in a see-thru body suit; Penelope Cruz gets
a full-blown Burlesque number on silk bannister and ropes. This is one song
I've never cared for in any incarnation--it's just a bump & grind, and tho
it seems to stimulate that cliched tired businessman, it does nothing for me.
I'd like to think it's Cruz's scene work that earned her Oscar attention beyond
this vampy number. Judi Dench gets some nice scene work too, and I suppose it
isn't too much of a stretch to believe a Brit learned her trade sewing costumes
at the Folies Bergeres. Her musical-hall performance reminds those who forgot
(or never knew) that Dench was the original Sally Bowles in London; and later
played Desiree Armfeldt as well. Facile bromides ("Try harder") from
a cardinal sends Guido down memory lane (in black & white) to his nine-year-old
self, seeking the whore Saraghina on the beach to teach him life lessons. But
"Be Italian" quickly segues back to color and the soundstage set, now
covered in 40 tons of sand, and Fergie on bistro chair--joined by an army of
whores, kicking sand up in their tambourines. It's a

rousing number--the show's
signature of sorts--and Fergie sings it well indeed, but aside from the fact
that she's just too young (she looks like she just stepped out of high school)
there's just nothing inherently believable about her as an Italian. Her Anglo-Irish-American looks work against the song she's
singing. Couldn't they at least have died her hair black? On Bway and in
Fellini, Saraghina was more corpulent and weathered--a bit of a hag. Perhaps if
Kathy Bates sang. . .

Luisa arrives at a working dinner, and fades into her own
reverie ("My Husband Makes Movies") tho it isn't clear if this is her
vision or Guido's: imagining her viewpoint in song--the strain of Marshall's
concept showing. (There was no such ambiguity in the musical, where this was
her response to a question at a press conference.) Marion Cotillard sings it
well, without fancy trappings--tho again we have drifted to the soundstage set.
Carla's arrival sets tempers aflame, and in retreat Guido gets picked up at the
bar by American fashion scribe Kate Hudson cueing a song revering, even
fetishizing "style"--with no substance. I don't know what go-go
dancers in Swarovski crystals has to do with "Cinema Italiano"---but the wind-blown, sped-up

catwalk choreography is a welcome uptick in energy at
the mid-point. Surely one can't argue against Sophia Loren as (everyone's) idea
of Italian motherhood. But wouldn't Guido recall a much younger mama than the
74 year-old we have here? Loren had put a few songs over in her 20s Hlwd years
("It Started in Naples," "Houseboat") so her own number was
required here: an instrumental waltz from the show was given new lyrics by
Yeston; "Guarda la luna"--essentially a lullaby set by Marshall in a
neverland of candles. I wish I could say its impact met its intentions.

Mention should be made of the occasional use of
ghosts--summoned by Guido's fancy: Mama riding in his Alfa Romeo; A wench
stroking a cardinal while he's damning sex; Claudia watching Guido forge an autograph
& kiss on her photo, while laying in her lap. Claudia appears only in his
imagination until well into the second hour, arriving at last for costume
fittings and begging for a script. In her first musical since Moulin Rouge Nicole Kidman gets the exquisite ballad
"Unusual Way"--which is beautifully set on a late night walk thru deserted Roman streets (a direct

steal from La
Dolce Vita--there's a fountain, too, but her somber mood precludes wading
in it--ala Ekberg). The song begins
seamlessly on real cobblestone locations, but Marshall is constrained by his
on-going concept; thus bringing a fountain to the soundstage set, before
concluding back in front a real one in Rome. More invented scenes lead to
Luisa's final straw, and we have again a confusion of perspective (hers or his?)
in another burlesque bit; a new one "Take it All" (inexplicably
nominated for an Oscar); a striptease with metaphoric pretensions--giving
Cotillard, alone among all the women, a second number. With this final collapse
Guido agonizes thru his final song, "I Can't Make this Movie" with
one beautiful image, tearing down a sheet projecting film images. The story
cuts to two years later, Guido walking with Lilli in a grey seaside village.
She suggests he go back to work; he claims the only story he could write would
be about a man trying to win back his wife (i.e. himself)--and of course,
that's the spark. Where Fellini left off with a bubbly circus parade invading
his outdoor Sci-Fi set, Marshall brings Guido back to Cinecitta shooting an
intimate scene, while his armada of past women (and men) enter from above, as
if in curtain call-- to a jaunty instrumental of "Be Italian"--to
take their place behind him. He's joined lastly by his nine-year old self (who,
I've not yet mentioned is adorable) who climbs on his knee on the camera crane
as it lifts into the sky; as the music fades his final word is. . . Action.
It's beautiful--just the right bit of softness, yet packing an emotional
wallop.

Nine premiered in LA on December 8,
and a week later in NY. I was fortunate to see it in the fabulous George Lucas
ILM theater in SF on the 15th, prior to its main release on Xmas Day. The movie
grossed a paltry $19 million domestic and only $54 million worldwide, falling
far short of its $80 million budget. Tho hopes were high that Marshall would
pull another Chicago out of his bag
of tricks, the outcome can't be considered surprising. Tho catnip to some (and
count me among them), ultimately who cares about the problems of an exalted
Italian film director? One place the film falls short is in bringing out the
full connection and resonance of 9-year-old Guido, with the 50 year-old. Yes,
there are a few such moments; luring Saraghina from her beach hut; being caned
by the priests, and that final joining on the camera crane. But his songs,
"Getting Tall" and "The Bells of St. Sebastain" are
missing--not to mention the title tune sung to him by Mama--giving weaker
meaning to the title: Nine.

I was having my own reach back to the age of 9 that year (2009),
reacquainting myself with the desert eden I first laid eyes on at that age in
1962. Since moving away from LA I hadn't been out to my hedonistic paradise,
but with frequent trips to LA to see friends and theater, I began to include
this detour in February. With renewed intention to retire there one day I was
lured by Open House signs to casually check out the real estate market. Almost
implausibly, I fell in love with the second house I saw; and loitering in it at
length gave me the acquaintance of a realtor, Dave Stukas, who would become
something of a friend. Dave wrote comic gay mysteries on the side, and had the
same love for mid-century modern desert architecture.

Six years after my father's suicide, my mother, who wanted
nothing more than to join him was still inexplicably clinging to life despite
having shrunk to skin and bones, increasing dementia, conjestive heart failure
and massive doses of morphine. On July 31st she finally gave up the
ghost--quite literally as I later discovered from her Ukranian care-taker,
Svetlana--as her struggle to let go was in battle with a dybbuk that apparently
had possessed her for some time--which went a long way in explaining her
behavior during those last years--short-tempered, unpleasant, ironically obsessed
with "identity theft"--so unlike the Mother I once knew. 88 and long
reclusive, there was no need of a funeral or burial; and for the second time
The Neptune Society got my business. I had not an ounce of sorrow for the
occasion, only relief. As it happened, I had a long-planned vacation scheduled
the following week, which was the perfect release from all the concomitant
stress. From San Francisco I drove first to Ashland, Oregon to see dear friends
Lisa Loomer & Joe Romano, now relocated from LA, then on to Portland and
Seattle where I was to meet up with Larry (flown in from LA) for us to catch
the pre-Bway tryout of Catch Me If You
Can--a thoroughly delightful show (ironically about identity theft!) I
suppose there's some karma in my finding solace in a musical--much as I had
built my own perfect world in my childhood bedroom, in protection from whatever
horrific, war-torn secrets these people who conceived, birthed & raised me,
deliberately and fatally kept from me. Yet I should thank them for allowing me
to find my own kind of bliss.

It certainly wasn't in San Jose. Having never lived in
that house myself, I had no reason whatsoever to hang on to Mother's haunted
manse (still crusted in steel bars from my father's paranoia)--even as a rental
property. Better instead to invest in my own future in Palm Springs. In
November Dave had another Open House in a neighborhood I hadn't yet considered,
and I had to admit this was the one. 5 lesbians had gone bankrupt keeping it up
as a golf weekend getaway, and were losing it in a short sale. I had yet to
sell Mother's house, but I clung to hope that no one else would snap up my PS
dream in the meantime. One way or another I was going to find my way back to
this desert paradise that first seduced & enchanted me when I was--but of
course--nine.

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About this Blog

At the intersection of Broadway and Hollywood,

the Musical has been my lifelong touchstone. How did this happen? What does it mean? Herewith an analysis of my own"glass menagerie;" a Proustian trail of memory and perhaps a final summation of my thoughts and feelings on this unrelenting vocation.

About Me

A man on the verge of a musical breakdown. Why did I do it? What did it get me? Scrapbooks full of me in the background: New York, Hollywood, San Francisco. Palm Springs. This time, boys, I'm takin' the bows.